Gravely Disappointed
by Gumball2
Summary: In search of inspiration, Lucy goes to the cemetery with her brother. When she seeks the other world, though, she can't understand why she isn't connecting with the familiar realm. (Lincoln is 16 and Lucy is 13)


Her big brother didn't bother himself with questions once in the car; he already had his fill when she first asked him for this. Lucy explained that today was the perfect day for her excursion. The gray sky muted the sun's faint rays. Her black journal rested on her lap, eager to fly open to the first blank page it saw. And since it was a weekend, there was no traffic to bother them. Soon, her magnum opus would be complete. Without any distractions, Vanzilla rolled its gravel-tinted tired down the asphalt.

Just in time.

Lucy's eyes examined the countless rows of graves separated by the well-manicured grass. Vanzilla kept rolling along, its driver uncertain of where to stop. Lincoln had been told to get as "dark and deep" into the cemetery as possible. Lucy, meanwhile, cleared her mind, trying to sense the apparitions wandering about the yard. It's a shame they couldn't come back at night (Lincoln was too spooked to accept). But this had to do.

Eventhally, Lincoln decided to stop. This was far enough, he supposed. Lucy didn't complain. The distance obscured the bustling businesses lined up in the outer streets, leaving only graves and barren trees in sight. Lucy slipped out the door and approached the nearest granite slate.

"Are you okay?" Lincoln asked as he got out (of course he would want to watch).

Perhaps Lincoln wasn't so passive after all. It took an eventless talk and dull drive for that inevitable question to finally be asked. Maybe Lucy took her brother's knowledge for granted, that he would assume this was a place she'd enjoy visiting.

She silently placed her hand on the cold surface while she read the epitaph. George was only thirty before he was forced from this cruel world. How did death envelop his body? Maybe the icy road sent the car plummeting off a bridge or perhaps a ravenous disease ravaged his organs.

Who did he leave behind? No other names were etched in the granite. Peering to the next grave over, the surnames didn't match. Then that means there's survivors. Did his family already move on from his demise or did they yearn for a reunion?

"Lucy?"

This time, she turned to her brother. She knew he was waiting for this whole trip to pay off. Lucy applied more pressure, hoping to push the soul out of its dreadful slumber. She had to feel him, to know his story and his woes. If there was any day where it could happen, it was now.

"I'm trying to sense him," she explained.

A gust of wind blew open her blank journal. The sound of crackling pages broke her concentration, forcing her to press the bound book shut. As she stared at the black cover, the reality dawned on her. She was an empty shell, unmoved by her spiritual exercise.

 _"This isn't right,"_ she told herself.

Lucy's emotions had been running rampant lately. Her dreary days of seventh grade compelled her to be more active. She wrote more, her communications with forlorn souls transformed into a passionate dialogue, and everything felt right. Lucy wanted to believe that her years of practice were starting to pay off, that she would finally become one with the other world.

Where was that inspiration now? Had it too left this mortal world, leaving her without a purpose? Now was the time she needed it most. Maybe she just needed to try harder, she'll get her hero.

Resting the book at its foot, Lucy pressed both hands into the tombstone and stared at the name. George. She imagined a face behind that name. Brown hair came to mind, followed by a long protruding nose. Okay. Next came a high, lifted voice.

 _"Hello Lucy. My name is George."_

His speech was stilted. Most souls had an eloquent tongue, but no matter.

 _"My whole life was tragic. I was an orphan from birth, abandoned in a murky river. I was pulled out by a vile witch drowning another kid. Rather than spare me the dread, she deliberately took me into her home and subjected me to eighteen years of rotten misery. Every day, she would take a knife and tread it along my wrists. At first, she only pressed its face against the skin, forcing me to absorb the cold metal. But then, she took the tip and sliced them open!"_

Lucy shook her head. That last part was forced (she didn't even go that far with herself). The separation reminded her of the emptiness in her body. Through that whole monologue, she got nothing. None of the joy that came with such edginess greeted her this time. It was impossible not to notice her desperation.

She examined the grave again. Then the impossible happened: this grave was nothing more than a slate of granite. Her eyes widened.

It was all gone. Sure she had gotten writer's block before, but those incidents were only borne of technical issues. Lucy always found a way to phrase something, even if it required a break.

But this? Everything she had ever worked for had vanished right before her eyes. There was no passion or emotion left inside, rendering her a shell. What if she never wrote another poem again? What if all her relationships with the spirits faded away? Lucy's hands hands fell off the stone.

"Is everything alright?"

Lincoln. He was there watching all of this. What was he thinking right then?

"I don't see anything," she replied.

Her brother knelt beside her and gazed at the tombstone. She watched him try and piece together this spirit's story.

"I'm sure he'll come out sooner or later."

Of course he would say that. Lincoln, as wise as he was, was so optimistic that he often failed to register the world's utter pointlessness. She had tried to describe to him some of the most morbid realities around. For example, everyone died before they could reach their full potential. In fact, potential didn't even exist. It was just a word wide-eyed innocents used to give themselves hope for the future. And future? Well that itself was a joke on its own. Everyone and everything was just frozen.

"I don't feel anything," Lucy said.

Now she was desperate. Seeing the grass beneath her, she drove her fist into it. That was awfully sudden, she thought. Was she sure she didn't have any feelings rattling? Of course not, she reasoned. She had to keep doing something, to move.

Lucy sprang to her feet and spun around. She started thinking about the sky around her. The sun was but a fleeting star in the sky. Everything would die, including it. And not just any death. It had to be gruesome, filled with blood and broken bones. Fire was also a nice touch, she thought.

"What are you doing?" Lincoln asked, confused.

"Trying to feel!" she shouted. Her throat burnt, so that had to be something.

This was great. Where to go next? She turned back to the gravestone. Lucy was in a cemetery for crying out loud! Nothing was darker and more inspiring than that. But it too was an empty place where even love of the dead came to perish. To think this was where she was gonna write her next masterpiece.

Lincoln chuckled. Lucy was stunned. How could her big brother be laughing at her misery. Unless, she thought, he had abandoned her too. Explanations were pointless because the stage set itself. Now she had to make sure it was real.

"What's so funny?" she asked dryly.

"You don't even know this guy. Of course you're not gonna be sad over his death."

How dare he, she thought. Lucy pouted and crossed her arms. Lincoln responded the only way he knew how: by laughing some more.

 _"Rejection! Slandering my name? Questioning my abilities?!"_ She thought.

"I can sense the dead, Lincoln. And I'm quite horrified that you would mock me!" she asserted. As he chuckled again, Lucy sensed a light emerging. Her cheeks lit up "Stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry, Lucy. You're just cracking me up right now," he said between chuckles.

"What do you mean?"

"Even you have to admit that's funny. Mocking you?!"

As Lucy examined her brother's face, a part of her saw he was right. This was Lincoln she was talking about. Of course he wouldn't abandon her over something like this. Still, her early adolescent demanded to now what this all meant. Lucy needed more inspiration.

"I mean it, Lincoln! The world's demons will crowd you and bathe you in their boiling blood! Only then will you realize the grave consequences of your terrible transgression!" she proclaimed as she threw up her arms.

Lincoln only laughed even more. Clearly, this wasn't working.

"How are you still laughing?!"

After another moment, Lincoln placed a hand over his mouth. He took a deep breath to quell whatever childish giggles hung over.

"You're going through a phase, Lucy," Lincoln said, "everyone's been noticing it these past few weeks."

Her cheeks blushed even more. Even she was horrified by how warm her face was.

"What do you mean?" she asked defensively, "I've always been this way!"

"We know," Lincoln replied, smiling, "but you've been hamming it up. It's like you enjoy thinking up the darkest, saddest thing you can."

Lucy was at a loss. Now that she thought about it, she had been revving it up. What was once meaningful contemplation of the darkest realms of existence had devolved into a farce. It was a lot easier to write when the standards plummeted. Excessive violence, melodramatic interjections, and spending more time talking on dark stuff than seeing reason got her excited. No wonder she filled up her last journal so quickly.

The blush intensified.

"Is everything I do just a joke?" she asked, shrinking back.

"Of course not. Nor should you be ashamed of what you do. It makes you happy and leads you to pursue what you love," Lincoln answered. Noticing her sister's embarrassed figure, he placed a hand on her shoulder, "you're the soul that makes this wretched life worth it."

Lucy perked her head up, seeing her brother's warm expression. It felt so genuine.

"But what about the hole I feel inside? I can't find his soul or anything!"

Lincoln turned to the cold gravestone and felt the granite for himself. It was the confusing mixture of smooth and rough his sister sensed. But that didn't kill his smile.

"This is just a part of growing up," he said, "When I was your age, I had all sorts of trouble. I thought weird things, I felt like I had to do crazy stuff because I thought no one would listen otherwise, and I found new challenges in places I least expected. It can be scary and discouraging, but that's what I'm here for. That's what your friends and family are for: to help you get through it."

Lucy thought back to that time. It was only three years ago, but she remembered. His brother took on new habits to develop a "personality". Sometimes, he threw random fits about nonsense, such as his disappointment with the Ace Savvy comics (according to him, the franchise had gone downhill). And there were days where he blatantly refused to help anyone and holed himself in his room. From what she recalled, their older sisters never got more than mildly irritated by his behavior. And now here he was, acting sanguinely to her absurd norms.

"Thanks Lincoln," she said as she turned back to the gravestone, which Lincoln still had his hand on.

Once more, she touched the granite. Her hand only felt cold rock. There was still no sign of George, but her soul became entwined with another being. She didn't have to look further than her brother to know the answer. Someday, she would have wisdom just like him and see past her own mortal coil.

For now, she was content to not know what she did not know.


End file.
